


yellow paint

by wandasmaximoffs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, M/M, References to Depression, joly is only really mentioned, just two guys bein gay on a rooftop, nbd, references to alcoholism, this is actually so cheesy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 18:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8024236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandasmaximoffs/pseuds/wandasmaximoffs
Summary: Enjolras could move mountains with one cold stare, Enjolras could defeat an army single handedly just by opening his mouth, Enjolras--Enjolras looks over just as Grantaire looks away. (If you stare at a bright light for too long, you can go blind. Or something like that.)(Grantaire thinks he might happily go blind, if that's the price to pay.)





	yellow paint

It’s not a cold night, but it’s not warm, either. It’s Autumn in Paris, and the slight chill in the air fits the city below him, all red and golden leaves and orange street lights. It’s a sight to behold, in the day, and Grantaire tries his best to get out and paint some of the scenes he comes across. If he’s sober enough. 

 

He’s regrettably sober, tonight. (Which, honestly, is the only way Bossuet would have let him near the roof.)

 

Sober, because somehow,  _ somehow, _ Joly had managed to keep him occupied all day, kept his hands busy and his mind wandering.

 

Regrettably, because Enjolras is sitting on a crate beside him.

 

“Did Courf send you up?” He asks, and Enjolras barely turns his head when he responds.

 

“No. I just… Wanted some air.”

 

Grantaire nods. They sit there, in silence, for at least five minutes. (To Grantaire, the silence stretches on for eternity.) It’s strange, to be sitting so close to Enjolras and not have his voice filling the space, no idealistic speeches filling in the cracks.

 

(It’s important to note that Enjolras’ voice is a drug, and while alcohol does the trick at numbing him, when Enjolras speaks he feels like he could almost believe in something. This feeling is addictive, and this feeling is  _ dangerous. _ )

 

Paris comes alive at night, and every so often their silence is disturbed by the thrum of music, or friends laughing, or a car radio turned up to an obscene level. Grantaire risks a glance at Enjolras. 

 

He’s like a sculpture come to life. Everything about him belongs in a sketchbook, or on a canvas, or sculpted into marble, but he is not one meant for a museum. Enjolras is too alive, everything he does has a fire behind it, even  _ breathing,  _ like he has something to prove and someone to prove wrong. It would not be the first time that Grantaire had compared him to some kind of angel of destruction; He doesn’t believe in much, but he follows his friends to their rallies and their protests anyway, to help, to watch, to try and bottle some of that passion for living they all seem to possess. Enjolras is always at the front of every crowd, standing on tables and chairs (and once, a car) his hair falling into his face, practically screaming about whatever it is they’re fighting for that particular day. And Grantaire  _ listens.  _ He doesn’t doubt that Enjolras could, at will, bring about the apocalypse. Enjolras could move mountains with one cold stare, Enjolras could defeat an army single handedly just by opening his mouth, Enjolras--

 

Enjolras looks over just as Grantaire looks away. 

 

(If you stare at a bright light for too long, you can go blind. Or something like that.)

 

(Grantaire thinks he might happily go blind, if that’s the price to pay.)

 

God, he’s so _ tired. _

 

Enjolras clears his throat. 

 

“You’ve been having a hard time lately.” 

 

It’s not a question. He’s still looking at him, and Grantaire shifts slightly under his gaze. He shrugs. 

 

“I mean-- I don’t mean to presume anything. About you,” He continues, “But. I’m here, if you need help. Or want help.”

 

Grantaire can’t help the bitter laugh that bubbles up and tears it’s way from his throat. Standing up, he moves over to the edge of the roof, resting his elbows against the concrete. It’s rough and scrapes against his skin a little more than he’s meant to, but it’s not an entirely unwelcome distraction from the conversation to come. So maybe he has been having a hard time lately. Who isn’t? It’s a tough world out there. 

 

“Don’t sweat it, Apollo,” He says, looking out over the city. “It’s not a big deal. Really. I--”

 

“Don’t.” Enjolras interrupts, which usually, is no uncommon thing, but-- There’s something about his tone that stops Grantaire in his tracks. “Don’t give me that. Don’t lie to me. We’ve been-- I-- Lately...” 

 

By now he’s standing next to Grantaire, so close their elbows are almost touching, and Grantaire huffs out a breath. (He knows what’s coming. He wishes he weren’t sober. There’s a reason they call it liquid courage.) 

 

Things have been strange between them lately. Less arguing and more  _ agreeing _ . Touches that maybe last a second or two too long, far too much eye contact for Grantaire’s taste (and yet he can never make himself look away.) Stumbling. Stuttering. Something has changed between them, like meteors flying too close, and something in him screams that this could be Enjolras’ way of trying to breach the gap once and for all. 

 

(Or, he’s just being a good friend. Joly asks him if he’s alright all the time, and he doesn’t want to kiss him until he can’t breathe.)

 

“Van Gogh,” Grantaire starts slowly, and before he can catch himself the words are forcing themselves from his throat one after the other, his mouth moving of it’s own accord. “Van Gogh ate yellow paint. Because he thought-- The colour is so bright, he thought it would get that happiness inside of him, and he wouldn’t feel shitty. Anyway. People thought he was crazy, right? ‘Cause that shit’s toxic, and like, the dude was eating paint. But I don’t think he was crazy. I mean, I’m not about to go on and start drinking paint, but I see the point. Everyone has something crazy that they want to be their crazy saving grace.Like drugs. Or love. Or...” He trails off, takes a deep  breath.

 

Enjolras is looking at him, patiently, and not like he’s thinking  _ Oh my God, Grantaire’s finally cracked  _ at all. It’s… He can’t quite pinpoint the expression, but it’s sincere and beautiful and he’s blushing slightly, and--  _ Shit--  _

 

“You’re my yellow paint,” Grantaire keeps going, before he has a chance to change his mind. Tonight seems as good a night as any to completely ruin his own life. Sober mind, and somehow his mouth is still drunk. (He can regret this later. Right now his heart’s pounding and Enjolras looks dizzy.) “Not that I think you’re toxic, ‘cause you’re not. You just… You’re my crazy saving grace. Because it’s fucking ridiculous, and I don’t believe in shit but I look at you and I  _ want  _ to believe in things, and I  _ do  _ believe in  _ you _ , and that’s… It could hurt me as much as it could save me. Haven’t been given a reason to fuck off just yet. It’s a weird metaphor, but you’re fucking brilliant, and… Yeah.”

 

He doesn’t even want to  _ look _ at Enjolras, his heart is going a mile a minute and he can tell he’s flushed from the truths that had just fought themselves to the surface; He’d spilled just about everything but an  _ I love you to pieces _ , and he’s not even drunk. 

 

Eponine’s going to laugh at him for this.

 

He’s more than ready to go and find something to cure his sobriety, and possibly drink enough of it that he won’t remember anything about tonight (and then drink some more,) but Enjolras catches his arm as he goes to turn away. 

 

The contact is like sparks on his skin, and Grantaire wants desperately to shy away from it, but he doesn’t; He’s determined to keep some semblance of his dignity in place, and so he catches Enjolras’ eye and holds his gaze. 

 

He doesn’t look mad, or embarrassed, or uncomfortable. He looks like he does when he’s out fighting for whales or whatever the fuck it is he’s into this week. 

 

Grantaire holds his gaze, and is half-way through a thought about Enjolras versus air pollution when Enjolras leans forward and kisses his him.

 

“Oh,” He says, when they finally break apart. “ _ Oh _ .”

 

“Yeah,” Enjolras laughs, and it’s quiet and breathy but not mocking; More relieved. “Oh.” (Grantaire is dizzy.)  

 

“I was wondering--”   
“I know--”   
“And so I guess you--”   
“I do--”   
“And that means I--”   
“I’m hoping you do, too.”

 

Enjolras looks at Grantaire with wide, hopeful eyes, and Grantaire can’t think of anything to do other than kiss him again.

 

And so he does. And again. And again. (He’s been thinking about this since the day they met.)

  
Grantaire thinks that maybe, Enjolras is better than yellow paint.

**Author's Note:**

> god idek what this is ?? none of it makes sense?? just that van gogh thing makes me really sad always?? its late #let rin live  
> comments and kudos are always appreciated, and if u read all this trash thank u ilu bless u <33  
> hmu on tumblr @ jehanprouvaiire.tumblr.com


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